


Slippery

by gardnerhill



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s one thing to tread carefully around ice-patches, but relationships must also be negotiated carefully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slippery

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2014 July Watson’s Woes Prompt #1:   
> 

_Not one word, Sherlock._ Joan’s expression spoke clear from her grim-set face framed by a reddened right cheek and a wild snarl of matted and dirty hair – which drew all the attention away from her right forearm and wrist in a Velcro’d cast and a sling. _Not. A damn. Word._

 _Who, me?_ Sherlock’s bland wide-eyed look said just as plainly. _Watson, I’ve admonished you before about those ridiculous heels you favour. You know what I’d say were I to say anything – so there is clearly no need_.

The ER doctor who’d dressed her sprained wrist had clearly also chided Joan over her choice of footwear during a New York City spring when melting slush could quickly re-freeze into patches of ice – upon which even the most sure-footed native could slip, if not wearing the right shoes. Clearly, the high-heeled boots in which Joan now walked across the waiting room to her roommate and business partner were not afforded that category.

“Pain level?” was all Sherlock did say, as coolly as he ever spoke.

“Two,” Joan said tersely. Three, surely, judging from the frequency of the winces and the indrawn breaths; but Sherlock spotted her the discount in the service of salvaging her dignity. She’d obviously turned down an offer of a mild painkiller, for his sake, and would make do with OTCs.

He helped her with her coat, as he always did – wet and soiled though it now was from the pile of dirty city slush into which Joan had skidded. The weather was brisk out, but not bitter, normally no need for the coat’s hood, but he knew she would want it up. He let her take care of it herself, tugging up the hood one-handed and tucking away the matted, dull-black mess her hair had become from that same slush, and that had transformed her look to that of a windswept vagrant. He continued to not offer assistance as they made their way out the double-doors to the cabs outside.  
                                                                                                         
Absolutely no help as they got out of the cab and paid the driver, as they crossed the street (also spotted here and there with ice patches and slush piles), as they walked up the stairs to the brownstone.

“Watson, you may attend to the rest of your bathing without assistance,” Sherlock announced over the click of the door locking behind them. “I will take care of your hair. In which order do you wish to attend to your hygiene?”

“Ex _cuse_ me?” Joan turned to glare at him, still parka’d as if for a blizzard.

Sherlock cocked his head. “It was a simple question. It is one matter to bathe oneself one-handed, but one’s hair is another matter. You normally prefer to wash your hair after you’ve cleaned your face and before you begin –”

“You know what?” Joan snapped. “I don’t want to know _why_ you’ve memorized my bathing habits!”

“Observed, Watson, it’s what I _do_ ,” Sherlock said as heatedly. “As I observed you in the ER this afternoon. You clearly did not wish assistance whilst we were in public and I acceded to your wishes. But we are not in public now. There is no one here to think the less of you because of a common springtime mishap.”

Joan gestured at her sling. “This has set our case back half a day!”

“A case involving suspected insurance fraud, I remind you. No one is in danger or will die – who hasn’t been dead for a decade already – because of a few hours’ delay in our research.” Sherlock held out his hands. “Your coat. You can call the dry cleaners once you yourself are clean.”

Face grim, Joan pulled her coat off herself with her left hand, cursing under her breath. “After,” she huffed, tossing the coat to Sherlock.

“Then kitchen first. You’ll need a plastic bag on that cast.”

***

When Watson came down the stairs a half-hour later, she was barefoot and wearing her pajama sweats. Her cheek still bore the red of the impact, and her hair was now a wet matted mess; her cast arm was unbagged and back in the sling. She was clean and she was tired-looking; pain and one-handed bathing was a tough combo.

Sherlock had cleared the kitchen sink and laid a damp folded washcloth across the rim. Two cups sporting dangling teabag tags sat on the counter next to the stove; he turned the gas off under the just-whistling kettle and dealt with the cups while she fished out the bottles of shampoo and conditioner from her pajama pants pockets and set them on the counter by the sink. The heady aroma of Darjeeling filled the room, and when Joan sat at the table and took up her cup, she saw two tablets in the saucer. The hot tea dissolved the meds immediately when she swallowed them; by the time she’d finished half the cup, her wrist throbbed a deal less. Sherlock drank his own tea across from her and read a periodical.  When she stood and headed to the sink, so did he.

More observation that her whole body language changed when she rested her forehead on the damp cloth by the sink. He draped the hand-towel around her neck, ran the water-sprayer against his hand until it was warm, and attended to business. Her skull was sound and undamaged under his exploring fingers. He knew she’d taken no head injury for he’d immediately checked her pupils while she’d lain on the street gasping in pain; but the physical evidence was a comfort as well. He did not so much as hum while he worked.

She closed her eyes and breathed slower, with fewer masked pain-hitches. The scalp massage unknotted everything all the way down, and the last of that disgusting, oily slush sluiced away with the warm soapy water.

He put in the conditioner the way he’d shampooed her. The smell of cucumber joined that of the Darjeeling. One last rinse; he squeezed her hair with the towel rather than tousle it, and left it hanging around her face like a hood and handed her her freshly-cleaned brush.

Clean; warm; safe; only a sprained wrist and a slightly-abraded cheek. She sat at the table again, her hair glossy once more under the brush.

He walked over holding the tea-kettle. “I could, hypothetically, ask you to stop wearing those heels,” he said.

“Not if you want to live you don’t,” Watson replied.

He nodded, and refilled their mugs with hot water.


End file.
